Purple and Pink
by Arya Alex Edge
Summary: A one-shot of Lily's mother reflecting on her childhood between her and her twin sister. Written in second-person.


**Disclaimer: I own no characters, maybe their aunt, but she's kinda based off of Petunia, so not really. Okay, so I don't own anything. I'm a hobo of the internet.**

**This popped in my head when I was playing the Sims and I was like, "That sounds cool." This isn't necessarily about Lily or Petunia, but more between their mother and aunt. I don't think that they had an aunt on their mother's side, but I thought I would pitch it there since JKR doesn't talk much about Lily's parents, or James's. **

******Rose is Lily's and Petunia's mother and Jasmine is Rose's sister, even though their names aren't mentioned in the story.**

** This is my first-time writing in second-person. EVER. It felt pretty weird and the writing might be a little iffy as of right now, but cut some slack. But enjoy and tell me what you think! **

You remembered how you grew up together, how could you not? You were her twin, her equal. You remember how your house used to be filled with two of everything in two colors: two beds with different sheets; two carpets with different thread; two closets, one filled with purple clothes, and the other pink.

You remembered how you could be in two different places at once without your parents ever figuring it out. You remembered that you each wanted to be like the other, and you ended up being the same.

But then, you both grew up. You remember how she took your favorite color, the one that made you, you. You remember how she had stood in the doorway of your conjoined bedroom searching for a new outfit that looked better than the last, while you shoved past her in sweats.

You remember how she had sneered at you in the hallway when her friends had pointed you out. You knew that she had laughed along with them when they picked on how you looked. She despised you, and even now, all of these years later, you still have no clue why.

You remember walking into the library and rushing around, your lips lifted into a smile when you remember that you used to do this together. She had loved books, but that was before her friend had come along.

You suspect that's why she had changed so drastically, just so she could fit in. She spent hours in the bathroom, making sure her hair was perfectly curled, while you had let yours be. She pretended that she didn't know you in the halls.

You don't understand why she hates you, but all you know is that she does, and with a passion. When you got married, she pretended to be excited when you chose pink bridesmaids dresses, but you knew that she wanted purple.

When she got married, you weren't even the Maid of Honor, but a lowly bridesmaid. Your parents would've admonished her, but they were gone. Your aunts and uncles never asked why, but you were sure they knew.

She had made it clear that she hated your husband from the moment that you had brought him home as your boyfriend. She had walked out of the house and joined a group of friends while you slapped on a smile and introduced him to your parents.

You loved to toss around the idea that you weren't related to such a cold person, but you were to alike on the outside. You both had the same blonde hair and green eyes. You shared the same height and had the same shoe size. But on the inside, you knew that she was different than you. And maybe that's why she was repelled by you, as if you were fire, and she ice.

You never tell anyone about how you used to be. Your husband barely knows how much you used to love her, but he suspects that you yearn for the old her. He had found you kneeling in the attic, next to a box filled with photos. You had one picture in your hand, a photo of two girls, one dressed in purple and the other pink. He had gingerly taken it from you and stared at the intertwined hands, the toothy grins. He had even glanced at your necklace, the small purple key that dangled from your neck, the same one in the photo.

He had never seen the other piece of it until he saw the picture. And you hadn't seen her wear the pink heart with the keyhole in two decades.

Today was Thanksgiving, and it was the only day besides Christmas that you saw her. Your kids were happy to go see their cousins and catch up, but they lived different lives.

Your sister was all about impressions. She never told you this, but you knew that she didn't have true friends. She went to a country club and always stayed on top of the latest trends. Her kids had never picked up a book, while yours had devoured almost two libraries.

But now you see the difference in your own children, even though they aren't twins. They're starting to grow apart, just like you did. Petunia has been throwing her sister under the bus as of lately. She was becoming bossy, just like your twin. She had started to wear her hair just like your sister.

And that's when you realize that children are a reflection of their parent's life. You can't escape from it. As much you love your children, you can't help but feel your heartbreak when you look at your children. You remember their smiles and interlocked hands, an imitation of your past life.

You sigh as you turn into her driveway. Her house has always been the biggest; it had to be. Her decorations were superb; nothing like the handmade ones your daughters had made when they were younger. No stick figures and paper cut-outs, paper plate wreaths or hand turkeys. Your sister, your _twin_ paid people to decorate her house.

You look to the elaborate doorway and see her standing there. Her hair always the prettiest blonde color that the hairdresser could supply; her eyes always shadowed heavily and her lashes covered in mascara; her lips lined perfectly. Your sister was everything you weren't.

But you notice something different about her. Maybe it's the pink necklace around her neck that makes her seem more friendly.


End file.
